Rose Petals and Lily White
by makeitstay
Summary: Nathan Wallace is of two minds about many things...But his two lives bleed into one another in subtle ways.
1. Layers

When you get down to it everyone is just layers. Skin and flesh, muscle and sinew, organs, blood and bone. Skin covers tissue, tissue covers muscle. Muscle covers bone. Muscles. Sometimes they remind him of steak. Really what are people but steak and ribs and lamb chops? Sometimes it makes him laugh a little. He will imagine his targets as piñatas full of candy treats; slice them open and get the prize. How festive. It's a god damn fiesta, for fuck's sake. Blood and gore and bone and screaming.

* * *

She's innocent and pure, the phrase 'lily white' springs to mind. And she is the one thing he would kill for. She is the one thing he _does_ kill for. If he could paint a picture of how he felt about her and capture the depth of his love for her, he would. If he could keep her safe and warm and joyful forever, he would do that too. If he only could. Sometimes her lips remind him of rose petals; that velvety softness, slick and smooth, supple. He will watch as she talks, his eyes only seeing those rose petal lips, twisting and forming words. Her mother's were slightly fuller. Her's are more doll like.

"Dad!"

He is brought back to the present, and she's giving him a withering look, folding her arms and frowning, her brown eyes glinting with annoyance.

"Sorry, honey, what did you say?"


	2. Red Rose

*Author's note: Sorry about the short chapters. I'm not sure where I'm going with this yet, exactly, but it's nice to do something less linear and more 'me' lol. I found 'I Remember' to be entirely too linear for me to have too much fun with, although I did my best.

Blood falls, splattering on the pavement. There's always so much blood. It seems almost excessive to him. Come on, I get the point already. Enough, with the bleeding! He is distracted as his quarry falls, spraying him with that most sticky and warm of liquids which he knows so well. Spatters of blood leave shining marks on his black, rubbery apron which he wears. He sees the world through the slightly magnified and enhanced eyes which his repo helmet gives him. The blood seems luminescent and it reminds him of rose petals. A sadistic smile quirks his mouth as the man lies convulsing, blood making its sickly, steady stream from the slash in his neck. Rose petals. Well now, that's an oddly lovely thought, isn't it? Rose petals on the pavement, rose petals on his clothes. Rose petals ebb and flow and leave nothing but that stinking, stupid flesh behind. Flesh that will rot and fester and be thrown into the open graves that are all over the city. Damn, there are more graveyards here than fast food places. Geneco! Cleaning up the city since 2030. It was Geneco's repo men making the mess though.  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wasn't sure why he did it although it seemed something of importance. Well, Nathan Wallace often wasn't sure why he did things. Or even quite _what_ he did. Yes, he was a legal assassin, working for Rottissimo Largo, laying waste to any of those fools stupid enough to default on their organ payments to Geneco. Stupid, stupid morons, the city cemeteries were brimming over because of the sheer short sightedness of them all. So he got his targets and he went after them with a cold and calm resolve. The hunt and the kill and the ripping, tearing, hot and sticky feeling. Often, he felt as if he watched the whole brutal and sadistic display from some vantage point high above. How odd.

She's sixteen now. Sweet sixteen, right? Huh…That phrase seems to have inappropriate undertones he'd rather not give thought to. He smiles at her and crosses the room to her bedside. She's half asleep and smiles up at him lazily. He gives her the single red rose and she looks a little puzzled. You so rarely saw flowers in this aching, industrial city. She sits up, looking at the flower with an enchanted look.

"What's this for?" She asked, for it isn't her birthday or any special day she can think of.

And Nathan just shrugs, because he honestly doesn't know what it's for, or why he felt compelled to bring it to her. Perhaps it's a little strange, but he felt as if he needed to do it when he saw it, growing wild in one of the cemeteries. Red roses are for love. She's the only thing he can love. Perhaps that's why.

* * *

Repo is anything if not imaginative. He's got a good sense of humor, and that's important. It really is, in this line of work. You have to be able to laugh at it, otherwise, you'd probably spend all your time moping about it or having a conscience, right? Or, worse still, you'd get bored. Or complacent and careless. He's anything if not careful and precise. Sometimes he's all business, other times he likes to play with his prey before he dispatches it. He's like a cat in that way.

"Okay, let's play a game." He growls, and the woman strung up before him gazes at him with wide eyed terror.

He paces back and forth in front of her, twirling his long handled scalpel like a baton and humming a marching tune. She's been crying so much that there's tears and drool and mucus all over her stupid, sniveling face. He's tied her by her ankles and wrists, spread eagled against the wire fence. There are still several hours before dawn and the alley is dark and deserted and is going to be the last thing she sees with her stupid, surgically enhanced eyes.

"I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 1000. Every wrong answer, I start vivisecting. Sound fun?!"  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mother is God in the eyes of a child. Is that how it goes? He wishes she had known her mother. He watches her sleep. Innocence of sleep. She lies on her side, raven hair spread out around her on the pillow. Her hand is up near her face, black finger nails shining in the soft yellow light. He steps closer to her, smoothing her hair back. Her hair. Marni's hair. It took him days to weave that gorgeous hair into a wig for her. Days of meticulous knotting and sewing the strands onto mesh. Because Shilo's hair had begun to thin, huge clumps coming out every morning when he brushed it for her. She had cried and raged. Little five year old Shilo, seemed so heartbroken to lose her beautiful locks of hair.

"I'll be _ugly_ Daddy, I don't _want to be ugly_!" She had screamed and cried, hiding her face in his jacket.

She was not a bratty child. She rarely got upset or had tantrums. But losing her hair had devastated her so. And so he got her wigs, different colours and styles. But none of them seemed right. They all seemed false. And he suddenly realized, his dear Marni's corpse, preserved in the wall, had just the hair that would suit his daughter.

He stroked the wig again, with a loving reverence. It hung so straight and smooth around her pale face. Angelic. That's what Shilo was.


	3. Light and Shadow

Light and shadow. Sometimes the city seems thrown into such sharp relief by the artificial lights, that all he really sees is a blur of light and shadow. Black and white. Flame and ebony. Everything here is so harsh and cold and hard. Unyielding, unsympathetic. Just like him. And it makes him smirk with a self indulgent glee. This is where he belongs, these shadows and harsh angles. This is where he is able to be free. On these dark and unending streets, twisting and turning into corners and alleys. This is where he finds them, this is where they scream. There is nothing quite so intimate as a dying gasp, a final plea. These stupid fools, thought they knew what they wanted. Thought new body parts would complete them. Thought one more surgery would save them. When that efficient, slicing scalpel enters them, it will be the last thing they ever feel. His eyes, behind that glowing mask, will be the last thing they look upon. He is their ending. He is death in slick, black leather that shines under the harsh light.

It's raining and it annoys him slightly. His boots make watery noise in the puddles on the pavement. Hard to be stealthy in water. Yet the sound of the pouring rain all but drowns out his footsteps. That is the silver lining, he expects, of this miserable weather. The air is cold, the rain icy. His jacket is thick and warm, helmet protects most of his face from the downpour. And he walks through the storm, in the dark. The shadows are inky black like velvet, street lamps glow and buzz through the mist of the pouring rain.

* * *

Sometimes Nathan feels his melancholy thoughts as if they hang around him in a cloud. His unrelenting grief for Marni, his guilt and remorse for his actions. Constantly eating at him and making his chest hurt. All the things he should have done, all the ways he could have saved her. It burns and taunts him, painful enough to bring tears to his eyes. And yet he torments himself, stares at his wife's lifeless face behind the glass in the wall. Only her chin, only her mouth, is visible. The rest is hidden beneath the black shroud. Hiding those empty sockets, hiding her bald head. And so he stares at that mouth, at those lips that used to smile and laugh and kiss him. He can still remember the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin. He will walk a well worn path down the hall, and just stand before her in reverence and silent agony. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!_ And sometimes it seems she is almost smirking at him. Almost taunting him. _Murderer!_

The world is so dark. And some days, everything reminds him of the wife he lost that awful night. His one spark of light, one glimmer of hope, is in that pale little face of Shilo. Those luminescent eyes, that quirky little smile. He is not a murderer in those eyes. He is not a monster. He is her father, he is her doctor, he is her comfort and company. He is her everything. Surely he is, for who else is there? And that's how it should be, right? That's how it has to be. No one else would love her as he can. No one else would care for her. Jangling of keys in the door, he opens the door and that cozy, yellow glow of her room engulfs him. No dark shadows here, no. Lamps and light and delicate wallpaper. No shadows in her room. And he will check her pulse, and listen to her little heart beat. That pounding, steady rhythm that is magnified and enhanced by his stethoscope. Thump-thump, thump-thump. All is well. She is strong, and well, and safe. And his.

"Drink your medicine and go to sleep, darling." "I love you, Shi." "I love you, honey." "I love you, precious." "I'll see you in the morning."

And then downstairs and into the shadows again. A warmth inside him at the thought of her. A glimmer of hope, a fragment of pleasure. And into the shadows, where she will become a dim memory, and Nathan will become a dim memory too, and he will stalk his prey.


End file.
